


Ice Cold, Burning Up

by GarlicBreadforNewsies (GarlicBreadforJuliusCaesar)



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Gift Exchange, High school crushes, M/M, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Snowed In, for @nowisthetimetocarrythebanner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarlicBreadforJuliusCaesar/pseuds/GarlicBreadforNewsies
Summary: Tommy Boy and Spot Conlon are rival hockey players.After a hard game, Tommy Boy can only think one thing: Fuck Spot Conlon.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Tommy Boy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Ice Cold, Burning Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@nowisthetimetocarrythebanner on Tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40nowisthetimetocarrythebanner+on+Tumblr).



> This is a gift for @nowisthetimetocarrythebanner on Tumblr, as part of the @newsies-secret-santa gift exchange 2020.
> 
> The prompt was Spot Conlon/Tommy Boy, Enemies to Lovers, Smut.
> 
> Hope its good!

Tommy Boy was pissed. Every inch of him was boiling with adrenaline and hatred. It seethed out of him, rolling off in thick waves. His teammates, the poor Manhattan Rioters, parted around him as he skulked off the ice. No one had ever seen him this angry.

He usually wasn’t this competitive. Sure, he liked competition, but it didn’t matter this much. Win, lose, or draw, hockey was his favourite thing on Earth. Even after the worst games, he was cool and unaffected. Unlike some of his counterparts, he wasn’t a sore loser. He never lost his temper. His stoic demeanour was practically legendary. However, this game deserved a little anger.

It wasn’t as if they had lost to any team; no, an ordinary loss wouldn’t have him fired up. It was the fact that they had lost to the Brooklyn fuckin’ Cougars that had him steaming at the ears. They lost to the guys from their rival college in a sudden death shootout. Just one goal down, with no time left on the clock. They had come so damn close to teaching those Brooklyn assholes a lesson, proving that Manhattan was just as good as them, if not better. And they failed. Now Spot Conlon and his cronies would lord it over them until next season - maybe longer.

_Fuck Spot Conlon._

Spot, Captain of the Brooklyn Cougars, was Tommy’s one true nemesis. They had met in high school, even played on the same team. They’d been close; there was a time he would’ve called the man his best friend. And, yeah, sure, maybe Tommy had found him a bit hot. He may even have had a small crush on him. So what? They’d worked well together, a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Everyone from Harlem to Chinatown knew that they were to best high school hockey players in the game. But, even back then, Spot was arrogant - full of himself, full of Brooklyn. He used to boast about how no one could beat Brooklyn, how his boys were the toughest and most disciplined. It was in his blood, that borough pride that he just couldn’t shake. And Tommy had been fine with it. He’d enjoyed the way Spot would come off the ice with arms in the air, the high-spirited way he’d josh you around in the locker room after a good game. The good times were good.

The flip side was unbearable. He could be loud and reckless when they lost, blaming everyone except himself. He would throw his weight around, hot and bursting with angry energy that he had to let out. He took the loss out on everybody. One night, after a particularly gruelling game that ended in a shootout, they lost by one point to an East Harlem team. Spot had made life hell for his teammates - before rounding on Tommy. They’d gotten into such a heated shouting match that it felt as if the walls shook with the noise. Spot had found a way to personally blame him for everything that had gone wrong. The argument was a blur in his memory - a mix of jersey pulling and finger pointing - until Tommy slammed the back door open and stormed off into the night, telling Spot to go to hell and grow up and find a heart somewhere. They didn’t talk after that, and when a scholarship to one of the prestigious Manhattan schools came his way, he jumped on it.

He hadn’t seen Spot in years, not off the ice anyway. They’d played something like forty games against each other since, in various tournaments, but they never spoke. The only contact they had was steely eye contact from the boxes and a shoulder check on the way to the lockers if they got close enough. No one could get him riled up quite like Spot.

With Spot, the wins were twice as good. If he managed to beat Spot, he was soaring. His energy levels were sky-high, and he bounced around his teammates in an uncharacteristic show of joy. Even Race found him disturbing when that happened. He was a fairly reserved person with a resting bitch face firmly in place at all times; seeing him openly happy was like seeing a total eclipse. He could ride the high of seeing Spot storm off after a loss for weeks. It was after those games that he went out and celebrated with the team, bonding over their victory and basking in the glory. No one questioned why it made him so happy. In their eyes, if Tommy wanted to show that emotion, they’d let him. Some of them, like Jack, had a vague idea of where it stemmed from but kept quiet. These nights just went to show that it was possible to take the King of Brooklyn - Spot’s dumb nickname for himself - down a peg.

On the other hand, the losses were worse than anyone could imagine. One glance at Spot’s smug, victorious face, and he was off the deep end. He would snap at his teammates, fixing them with a look that left them cold for days. The anger came in rushing waves that overwhelmed logic and rationality until all he could think about was how Spot affected him. It wasn't pretty. The team knew and would change quickly and scatter from him. His usually intimidating demeanour became murderous. If you so much as breathed in his direction - or thought about Brooklyn or Spot near him - he’d be all over you. Those nights he walked home, using the chill of the night to cool the anger. He stayed silent and alone, trying to stop thinking, trying to escape the Brooklyn asshole.

In true Tommy style, he rounded the corner to the locker room seething with rage. He wasn’t an overwhelming presence normally, what with his height and ability to fade into the background - but these days were different. Men twice his size leapt to the side, ducked into the showers, and tried to avoid his gaze; that only made him angrier. No one ever felt the way he did about Spot, didn’t understand the rivalry on that level. Just once, it would be nice for someone to match his energy.

Slamming his locker open, he let the tension of the room wash over him. He wanted to feel bad about how his temper was overpowering the room. The emotions were uncontainable; they would run their course. The guys would forgive him later, but for now they had to bow their heads and bear it. Pulling his kit off and shoving it in the locker, he waited for the room to clear.

Coach Wiesel ducked in, giving them a half-hearted pep talk and avoiding Tommy’s eyes. He cut himself off fairly quickly, making some excuse about the weather, before retreating. Most of the boys took that as their cue, shuffling out of the room to try and snag the last bus back to the campus. Tommy, who lived in a dorm a few blocks over, opted to stay behind and walk to the subway.

That turned out to be the wrong choice. If he’d been paying more attention, he would have noted that what Weasel had been trying to tell them was that the snow storm they’d been expecting had kicked up during the game. It was sleeting outside. Hard. It made the roads unsafe and definitely wasn’t the kind of weather you wanted to be walking home in. Taking a look out the window, he realised that he might not even be able to make it to the station with the way it was coming down. He resolved to wait a minute and see if it calmed down some. Other plans would have to wait until then.

He went to hit the showers, confident he was alone. No one else was dumb enough to still be here in this storm, not to mention the janitor would be in soon to lock up and you wanted to be out before that happened.

Tommy was wrong. Standing in the far stall, looking too serene and too happy, was Spot fucking Conlon. That little asshole was the last person Tommy wanted to deal with at that moment. Taking the furthest available stall, he pointedly ignored the Bitch from Brooklyn.

Turning the water to full pelt, he soaked up the heat from the spray, letting it mix with the anger under his skin until he was warm inside and out. The steam was nice. He let his head drop forward, releasing some of the tension that clouded his head; rinsing away the sweat of the game did wonders for his clarity. He knew, on some level, that this rivalry wasn’t healthy for him. Hell, he had loved Spot like a brother for years. They had been close as anything, but now he couldn’t force the anger to stop.

He was distantly aware that the other shower had shut off but ignored it. If he didn’t open his eyes, didn’t acknowledge the elephant in the room, he’d be okay. Wet footsteps approached and came to a halt just in front of his stall.

“Well, if it ain’t Tommy Boy, the defector.”

He hadn’t expected the elephant in the room to address him.

Having a shouting match, naked, in the boys' locker room, was not something he had intended to do - he would stand by that until the day he died. He thinks he could be forgiven for it happening, though, on account of the fact that it was Spot and that he was so damn angry.

“And if it ain’t the Prince o’ Brooklyn,” he scoffed, “all five feet of him.”

There was a sound like the shifting of towelling and a footstep. Tommy, who knew Spot’s mannerisms too well, recognised that this was Spot stepping up to fight. He chuckled despite himself. If he couldn’t beat him on the rink, he’d sure as hell give him a run for his money off of it.

“What’s the matter, Seanie? Someone mention your height complex?”

“You got some nerve, Tommy,” sniffed Spot, “We’s the same height.”

He was mostly right. Their was an inch separating them, give or take a few centimetres. Still, Tommy had the upper hand in height.

“What do you want, Spot?”

“Nothing much, just to gloat.”

Tommy rolled his eyes at the wall. “Then go find someone who cares.”

“I already have.”

He heard Spot shift, so he was leaning against the stall divider like a proper asshole.

“From the looks of you, you really care that I won - coming off the ice all red in the face. Can’t handle being second best, can ya, Tommy Boy? Just can’t stand it when I win -”

“- Shut up, Conlon -”

“- but we all knew Manhattan was never gonna win. You know why, Tommy?”

Turning the water off, Tommy wrapped his towel around his waist. He wasn’t just gonna stand here and take Spot’s taunting. Besides, the sleet wasn’t getting any lighter, nor the subway station any closer.

“I’m warning you, Spot, lay off it.”

“Cause you just ain’t as good as me. I’ll always beat ya in the end. Me and Brooklyn - we’re the best there is.”

Slamming the shower door open, Tommy stared Spot down. The Brooklyn bastard had the sense to look somewhat surprised, but his bravado didn’t fade one bit. His cocky smirk never wavered. Tommy slammed a hand into the wall next to him, getting an inch from his face.

_“Fuck. Off.”_

“You first.”

Sensing this wasn’t gonna end any time soon, Tommy stormed back to the locker room. Throwing his clothes on, he distinctly did not listen to Spot’s continuing taunting him from the other lockers. He didn’t have time for that jerk anyway. Gathering his things, he made a beeline for the back exit.

He had to shoulder barge the door to get it to open, the cold weather affecting its integrity. In that time, Spot had caught up with him, spinning his car keys around his finger and looking all too pleased with himself. Tommy didn’t need any further reason to think he was a jackass, yet he kept providing them.

Spot got a weird look on his face; lips pulled back questioningly, and a furrowed brow settled into his features, creating an expression of disbelief and curiosity.

“Hey, Manhattan!”

“What?” Tommy snapped harshly and flashed him a challenging look.

“Where’re you going?”

“Home, dipshit,” he shrugged, “Thought you coulda worked that one out.”

Spot strode up to him, stopping him on his way outside.

“You bring a car or something?” He asked, a softer turn from his previous statements. His gestures were uncharacteristically gentle.

“I got legs, don’t I?”

Tommy pulled out of his grip, taking off into the car park. He heard a shout from behind him.

“C’mon, Tommy, even you don’t think you’re dumb enough to walk home in this.”

The sleet had already soaked through his clothing, prickling the skin of his chest. His sneakers, full of holes and in dire need of replacement, soaked up the freezing water like sponges. He’d catch one hell of chill. Blinking the water out of his eyes and adjusting his hood, he finally responded to Spot’s comment.

“You’re right,” said Tommy.

“Thank god -”

“- I’m walking to the subway station.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He already knew that the action was reckless, borderline crazy. But he didn’t see another option - at least not one more favourable than the current one.

“You’ll die out there, genius!”

He rounded the corner before Spot could protest more. The last thing he wanted was to be out here with the weather getting worse. The second last thing we wanted was to spend any more time with Spot Conlon.

Only a few yards down the road, Spot pulled his car up alongside him.

“Get in.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request, idiot. We all know Kelly’ll kill me if I let you die in a snowdrift.”

Tommy stopped walking.

“I‘ll give you a lift to the subway station.”

Tommy still didn’t get into the car. Call it stupidity or stubbornness or plain old hatred. Spot fixed him with a serious look, angry and pleading. The strength of it made Tommy look away.”

“Look, you can go back to hating my guts after, but let me help you out for old times’ sake.”

“Fine.”

Spot’s car was warm and dry and full of Spot. It was well-kept, seat covers and air freshener included. The whole thing smelt like Spot. The music from the stereo sounded like Spot. The seat cover had the ugliest red-and-black Celtic knot pattern Tommy had ever seen, and he could've picked it as Spot’s from a mile away. There was something strangely comforting in the fact that Spot was still the same guy Tommy had known in Brooklyn. The only thing that had changed was them.

“Thanks,” Tommy whispered grudgingly.

“Don’t mention it.”

They drove into the weather in tense silence. Tommy studied the dashboard cover, looking for dust. He was impressed by the cleanliness of Spot’s car. Sure, he’d known the man was particular about his things, but he’d never seen such a well cared for vehicle. It was almost sweet.

As they prepared to pull onto a new street, one that would take them towards the subway station, Spot cursed.

“It’s getting worse out there.”

He was right, too. The sleet was getting heavier, the road wetter. Visibility was lower than Tommy could remember, the lights of passing cars obscured and distorted like a demented kaleidoscope.

“Hey, Tommy?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry. I’m calling it.”

And he through his other indicator on and headed towards the Brooklyn Bridge.

Tommy was stunned. I’m calling it was an old pact. A version of ‘trust me.’ One or the other of them would make a decision that could lose them a game on the rink, and the other would go with them. It was the basis of their friendship - no matter what, they could count on the other to back them up. And even after all this time, Tommy wanted to trust him. The weather was bad, and he was getting nervous. If Spot had an idea of how to keep them both alive, well, Tommy could trust him.

“What’s the play?”

“I’m taking you back to mine.”

When it was clear that Tommy wasn’t going to object, he continued.

“It ain’t safe, and if we head towards the subway, we’ll be caught in the traffic up that way. The sooner we can get off the roads, the better. The Bridge is closer, and I got a couch you can sleep on. At least that way we’ll _both_ be safe.”

Tommy was shocked by the emphasis on _both_ , but more shocked by the warm feeling it left in his chest.

“Alright, Spot, but you’re gonna have to lend me some clothes.”

“Fine by me.”

The atmosphere in the car had changed. Maybe it was that old promise, the memory of a friendship, or maybe the quietly simmering anxiety at the worsening conditions outside the car. Whatever it was, they sat in more companionable silence for a while. Spot broke it.

"Did you see Oscar eat ice tonight?”

Tommy chuckled at the memory, “I sure did.”

“Never seen someone get up so fast,” Spot smirked, “beet red and cursing. That kid ain’t built for hockey.”

“He’s got the temper for it.”

“Yeah, but he ain’t got the brains for it,” said Spot, “better built fo’ football than anything.”

Tommy had to give him that. Both the Delanceys were a bit thick, but they were big and loud. They’d be good on the football field - or at a riot. However, no one alive could remember a game where one of them stayed upright the whole time.

“You think Oscar was bad - did you see the way Elmer hit the deck?” Tommy asked. Elmer had tripped on someone’s stick and flailed like a fish out of water before going down. “I was honestly worried about him.”

“Funny kid, that one.” Spot nodded, “Never seen a more dramatic fall.”

“Oh, really? Have you forgotten HotShot at regionals?” Tommy laughed. “Took down half of the other team with him.”

Spot let out a long, hard laugh, his shoulders shaking as he tried to keep it under control.

“I had! I had forgotten that.” he gasped.

“They were all piled up - limbs and sticks and all.” Tommy remembered it clearly - they had to stop play to set it all right.

“Even the coach couldn’t keep a straight face.”

They laughed together. It felt just like old times. That final had been their first year on the same team, and it was truly a mess. The other went through substitutes at a rate they’d never seen, every other player sporting a major injury. They were big guys, too. He and Spot had bonded over the fact that they were both tiny compared to these guys. They had worked themselves so hard to win that game, leaving everything on the ice.

“Remember when the big one tried to congratulate you?”

“Don’t remind me - I think I still got the bruise,” said Spot.

Tommy grinned, “T’was just a pat on the back, Sean.”

“It coulda woken the dead! I was _on the floor._ ”

They continued to swap stories back and forth until they were off the Brooklyn Bridge. It was at that point that the conversation took a turn.

“Hey, Tommy Boy, what happened to us?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“We was so close - always joking, always laughing. You were one o’ my best friends. Then all of a sudden you’s mad at me, and we’s not talking, and then you up and move to Manhattan of all places. What happened?”

“Really, Spot? You that thick?” Tommy’s anger was returning. How could Spot not know?

“What’s that s’pposed to mean, Tom?”

“The East Harlem Eagles game. You blamed me for everything that went wrong when none of it was my fault at all. Pulling my jersey, calling me names. The worst fight of my life. You were so full of yourself and your anger - you couldn’t see you were hurting the team. And you came for me! Your temper and your pride’ll be your downfall, and it certainly was with me, so don’t even try. You hurt me, Conlon, and you never even apologised.”

“Tommy,” pleaded Spot.

“No.”

“ _Tommy_ , it wasn’t that bad, was it?” Spot asked.

“The fact you gotta ask, Spot,” Tommy huffed, crossing his arms, “that’s the mad part.”

“We always fought. How was that night any different?”

“It was my last game with you!”

“‘Cause you chose to move to Manhattan! You were leaving me, and for no good reason.”

“ _For no good reason?_ ” Tommy rounded on him, eyes full of fire. “I got a scholarship! My Ma didn’t have to work three jobs no more! It was the best damn thing that ever happened to me!”

Spot went quiet.

“Morris said you hated the team. Said you were leaving to join a better one. Said you hated us all, hated Brooklyn. Hated me in particular. He said you got an offer from the ‘Hattan high school, and you took it.”

Tommy found himself without air. Shock had stolen his words.

“You believed him?”

Spot nodded, “Well, yeah. You’d been so quiet, and you weren’t around so much. Missing practices and that. Then you left.”

“What else was I supposed to believe?” He added after a beat.

“We’re a mess, the pair of us.” Tommy Boy whispered.

“You said it, kid.”

Tommy knew he’d be kicking himself over that for years. All this time, they had hated each other because of a misunderstanding.

“‘M sorry, Tommy Boy,” Spot choked, “I ain’t mean ta hurt you for real.”

“I’m sorry, too. I never should have let it get this far. Shoulda talked to you more.”

The car stayed quiet until they pulled into Spot’s garage. The air was thick with guilt and regret, but also anger. You see, both men were born in Brooklyn - their tempers were short and hot as firecrackers. Neither found it easy to let their anger go and there was still so much to process. Maybe in two or three years, they’d have calmed down from this.

They made their way up the stairs quietly and into Spot’s apartment building. The chill seemed to cling to the wallpaper, layers of cool air in every crevice. Tommy’s clothes were still damp and chilling him badly. Still, the first step through the door was nice. Spot had left his heater on; the difference in temperature was delightful.

“Oh, that’s _good_ ,” moaned Tommy, dropping his bags onto the floor.

“Hey!” Spot scolded, toeing off his shoes, “Hang it on the hook, you slob.”

Rolling his eyes and huffing, Tommy did as he was told. His bags would crowd the doorway, that’s why there were hooks. He should respect that.

“Geez, Tommy, we let you go to Manhattan for two years and you lose all your manners.”

That did it. Tommy’s anger, which had settled just below boiling point, was rising up his throat again. He’d never had good anger management, neither had Spot. It was only a matter of time before they started up again.

“You got some nerve, Conlon. You better watch out, or I’ll do something about it.”

Spot chuckled.

“Why don’t you go and get dry first?” He tossed him a handful of clothes from the pocket of his hockey bag. “I’ll still be here when you get back. You can kick my ass then.”

He gestured down the hallway towards the bathroom.

“I’ll fix something fo’ dinner while you’re in there.”

Shrugging, Tommy made his way to the bathroom. It only took him a little bit of searching to find himself a towel, and even though Spot hadn’t specifically told him to shower, he thought he might as well. The warm water felt good. He knew he’d already showered that evening, but the cold weather had him cold to the bone, so he indulged.

Less than five minutes later, he headed back to the kitchen, dressed in Spot’s old workout gear and much warmer. There he was greeted by the sight of Spot, looking cozy and domestic and very lost. He was holding a can of beans by the very top, seemingly reading its ingredients list. He, inexplicably, looked confused.

“Whatcha got there, Sean?”

“Uh, beans,” he responded, sounding almost confused by it.

“You sound surprised,” Tommy laughed, before jumping up to sit on a counter, “So what’s for dinner?”

“Get off my counter,” Spot directed, before turning to his pantry, “And, um, I thought I might make spicy beans.”

“Oh, like chilli?”

Spot took a breath as if to speak and then sadly shook his head, “No, I can’t make chilli.”

Tommy laughed at that. He remembered Molly Conlon’s cooking - it was absolutely divine. There was no way that Spot hadn’t picked it up.

“Good one, Spot. What’s in your spicy beans?”

Spot clenched his jaw, going a little red. He appeared to be angry.

“Beans and paprika. Chuck it in the microwave for a minute and it should be good.”

A heavy silence passed between them.

“Oh, Spot, no,” Tommy almost begged, “Tell me you don’t live like this.”

“Shut up, asshole, or you’re not getting any beans.”

“What a loss!” Tommy moaned sarcastically.

Spot tossed the can at him, “I’d like to see you do any better, Manhattan.”

“Okay,” Tommy said, climbing down from the counter and digging through the cupboard, “I will.”

He began gathering ingredients from Spot’s stores. Really, he didn’t have much to work with. It was apparent that Spot wasn’t much of a chef. There were some basics, sure, but everything was full or unopened. This was not the kitchen of a man who cooked.

As he threw ingredients into a pan, instructing Spot here and there to chop something or heat something else, he began ranting about Spot’s cooking.

“ _Spicy beans_? Spot, really, your mom would be having kittens. I remember her cooking. That woman made cannolis that made you think you’d died and gone to heaven. I would chop my arms off for one of those. Hell, if they served them at church, I’d be the Pope. How did you end up with your specialty meal being _spicy beans?”_

“I just can’t cook, Tommy. And it can’t be the worst meal you ever had.”

“I can’t - because I didn’t have it!”

“Shut it,” Spot hit him with a tea towel, “I remember your mom’s cooking. This ain’t that bad.”

“Firstly, it is that bad,” corrected Tommy, “and secondly, Ma worked three jobs. She put Dunkaroos on the table, and we ate them. When I got old enough to cook, I did. You have no excuse.”

“Whatever, Tommy.”

Conversation faded back to cooking instructions. Eventually, they had a decent vegetarian pasta bake in the oven. They retired to the living room to wait for it. While there, a thought crossed Tommy’s mind.

“Why would Morris tell you I hated you?”

Spot considered his response.

“Probably ‘cause he was jealous, and he had a crush on you.”

Tommy threw a throw cushion at him. “Yeah, right.”

“No, I’m serious!” Spot laughed, throwing it back. “Lotsa folks did. Half the girls only game to our games ‘cause you were playing.”

“You’re kidding,” demanded Tommy, suppressing giggles.

“No, you were more popular than the quarterbacks. Most’a the girls called you _Pretty Boy_ instead of Tommy Boy.”

Tommy laughed in spite of himself. It was nice to have a confidence boost.

“Who? Which people?” He pressed. “C’mon Sean, give me a list.”

“It’d take me all night. You left a string of broken-hearted suitors in your wake wherever you went. Even the other schools had girls showing up at our games to try and take a shot with you.”

Spot chuckled as if this was an amusing memory for him.

“I wish somebody had told me back then! I coulda finally got a date.”

Spot laughed, “Nah, no one in Brooklyn would stoop so low as to date someone from Manhattan.”

Tommy shot him a steely look, trying for intimidating and suave.

“Keep saying shit like that, Conlon, and I might have to teach you a lesson.”

“Oh, yeah,” laughed the shorter man, “like you could!”

And Tommy, with all his stubbornness and anger, took that as a challenge.

“You wanna bet?”

He leapt out of his seat in the armchair, standing over the top of Spot. He took his shirtfront in one hand, leaning over Spot and pressing him into the couch. The Brooklyn boy, for all of his usual bravado, fell silent. He was usually raring for a fight - got into so many in high school that they nearly booted him off the hockey team. And yet, when it came down to it in that moment, he seemed reluctant.

“What’s the matter, Spot?” Teased Tommy, leaning in closer, “Am I more than your bargained for?”

Spot tried to brush him off, tried to laugh, and push him away. He didn’t quite make it. With red cheeks and a frog in his throat, he spoke.

“Tommy,” he whispered, placing a hand on his chest. Any remaining resolve to dislodge him was replaced by embarrassed arousal as he felt how built Tommy still was. The quick look he got in the locker room didn’t hold a candle to reality.

Tommy noticed his reaction. He hadn’t often seen Spot flustered. He took a moment to soak in the novelty of it all before snapping to his senses.

“Hey, Spot?” He asked, halfway between cocky and hopeful, “That list of kids who had a crush on me - did it include you?”

Spot sucked in a breath, nodding. “Yes.”

“You little bastard!” Tommy crowed, shoving Spot’s shoulder playfully.

“Don’t start, To-”

“- You’re saying if I had asked you out, _you woulda said yes_?”

“Wha- yes, of course!”

Tommy’s demeanour changed to something darker, more urgent.

“You have no idea how often I fantasied about you - wanted you, so bad. Spot, I woulda given the world for a chance with you!”

It was Spot’s turn to be cocky and confused.

“This ain’t a joke?”

“No. Swear to god.”

Spot took a few deep breaths, settling himself before he spoke.

“Lucky, you got your chance now. What’re you gonna do with it?”

Tommy Boy got a predatory glint in his eye.

“Well, if you’re interested, I think I’d like to spend tonight fucking you into the mattress.”

“ _Oh, fuck yes.”_ Spot gasped, grabbing Tommy’s neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

It took Tommy’s brain a second the get onboard with his body, as he still processed the fact that he was _kissing Spot Conlon_. His high school crush was underneath him, enthusiastically consenting, ready to spend the night tangled up with him. All the feelings he’d placed aside, all the long buried fantasies, resurfaced in his mind. Searingly hot and ready to make his dreams come true, he braced an arm on the back of the couch, pulling Spot in closer.

Spot was a great kisser. His lips were soft and plump, the perfect shape for kissing. Best of all, he was warm, a sharp contrast to most of the evening. He gladly accepted as Tommy began to deepen to kiss, making aborted sounds of pleasure. Tommy desperately wanted to hear more of them. He nipped at Spot’s lip encouragingly, pulling him as close as he could.

The couch wasn’t going to be a comfortable option for the rest of their venture. Tommy pulled back reluctantly.

“Where’s your room?”

“First door on the left.”

Spot moved to get up, but Tommy had a better idea. He used all his strength to pull Spot off the couch and into his arms. Spot barked out a shocked breath but got with the program quickly, wrapping his legs around Tommy’s waist. His hard-on pressed lazily into Tommy’s stomach, leaving the other man to let out some pleased and amused sounds.

“Enjoying yourself, Conlon?”

“Don’t play cocky, Tom. It ain’t the time.”

“Oh, but I think it is.” smiled Tommy, dumping Spot on the bed. “It’s fun to see you all riled up.”

Spot scoffed. “If you wanna see me riled, youse gonna have to lose some clothing.”

Tommy pulled off his borrowed shirt, revealing his toned chest. He was golden tanned and simply gorgeous, divots and lines filled with shadows and creases. His body was a well-kept masterpiece. Spot was not at all surprised.

He surged up to kiss his newly-shirtless partner. Tommy lowered him back to the bed, pressing down into him and into the kiss. Spot moaned breathily, hands tangling into his lover’s hair. The heat in the apartment was steadily becoming too hot, despite the ever-lowering temperatures outside. Their touches grew more amorous as Tommy stroked Spot over his shirt, teasing and learning and touching as much as he could. He scratched his nails across Spot's pants lines, the changed sensation both pleasurable and an indication of taking things further. Tommy pulled back from the kiss, sliding a hand fully under Spot’s shirt.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Spot, sitting up to remove the shirt. It was too hot for clothing.

Tommy stood and untied his - well, Spot’s - gym shorts. They grazed his hips temptingly, cascading down his pelvic lines like water over river rocks. Spot took a moment to catch his breath and look at this man. He’d always admired Tommy Boy, his body and his mind. He’d spent too many years stealing glances in change rooms and showers. Now, with the cocky bastard standing in his bedroom like a dream come true, he took a good moment to memorise and savour his body.

There was a stunningly hungry glint in Spot’s eyes. He looked ready to fight, ready to fuck. His lips curled back in a grin as he palmed himself lazily. Tommy, spurred on by his boldness, flexed luxuriously, putting on a show. Neither of them was going anywhere - they could take a little time on this.

“Fuck, Tommy,” Spot rose from his seat on the bed, “The things you do to me.”

“They don’t even hold a candle to the things _I_ want to do to _you.”_

It was a surreal moment for both of them. Back in high school, they would’ve given anything for this moment. Now that they had it, they didn’t know what to do with it. Tommy had some ideas, though.

“I used to have this, um, this fantasy,” he blushed.

Spot stepped forward to close the distance between them.

“You wanna share it with the group?”

“I always wanted to suck you off,” said Tommy, kneeling in front of Spot.

Spot was only a man. He wanted to think of something smooth and charming to say, but seeing Tommy Boy on his knees, reverence in his eyes, he couldn’t. Choking on his own tongue, he mustered up all the words he could find.

“Yes, Tommy, please.”

Consent firmly established, Tommy reached in and unbuttoned Spot’s fly. His body was warm and tight, dick straining against his jeans. Tommy stroked him lightly through his boxers, feeling his dick twitch and flex under the fabric. He ran his fingers around the elastic, teasing and playing.

Spot groaned above him, already gasping for breath. He’d been on edge for so long.

Tommy finally took pity on him, pulling him out of his pants. His dick wasn’t anything special, but it was hard and hot and connected to Spot. It was perfect. Shuffling forward on his knees, he took Spot in his mouth.

His mouth was warm and tight. Tommy knew exactly what he was doing. Rubbing his tongue against the underside, he put his heart and soul into the act. He hollowed his cheeks and relaxed his throat, taking as much of Spot as he could.

Spot cursed above him.

“Fuck, Tommy - _oh shit_ \- hmm, you’re pretty good at this.”

He looked up, twitching an eyebrow in at his lover, before taking him to the root. Tommy’s nose was pressed into his pelvis, throat working as he swallowed around Spot’s cock. The sensations were almost too much, almost pushing him over the edge. He threaded a hand reverently into Tommy’s hair.

“You keep that up, baby, and I ain’t gonna last.”

Tommy took that as encouragement. He doubled down on his efforts. A hand on Spot’s ass, he pulled him closer, pulling back and surging forward with an impressive rhythm. Spot cursed, trying to keep his cool and stave off his climax as long a possible. It was hard - Tommy was skilled.

He pulled back, using a hand to pump Spot’s cock while he looked him in the eyes.

“You close, Spotty?”

“God, yes.”

“You wanna come down my throat?”

Spot choked, groaning at the pressure on his dick and at the filthy words coming from Tommy’s mouth.

“Yeah, please, you okay with that?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, “Spot, I _want_ that.”

Taking him back into his mouth, Tommy pulled all the tricks he knew. He twisted his hand on the upstroke, laving at the head, and driving back down. His movements were precise, combating Spot’s abortive thrusts. He was spurred on my the noises his lover was making - breathy and losing control with the second. He wasn’t going to last.

“Ah,” gasped Spot, Tommy’s only warning.

He came. Tommy swallowed around him, working him through it, until Spot was panting above him. Legs shaking, he stood up and pulled Spot in for a kiss.

“Thank you,” Spot whispered.

“Any time,” Tommy whispered back, nuzzling against his jaw.

Spot kissed his forehead. “You mean that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

They fell into bed together, happy and content. The future of the relationship with uncertain, but that didn’t bother them. They were together at last, happy and sated. For now, Brooklyn and Manhattan were no longer at war. The rest could wait.

The pasta bake ended up being delicious, if a little burnt. They agreed that Tommy could do the cooking from now on.


End file.
